An Infernal Dialouge
by DaughterOfStarlight
Summary: After a spat with his live-in Antichrist, the Prince of Darkness takes a short jaunt aboveground, finding suicidal Italians, too many drugs, and a long overdue conversation with his favorite arch-rival. Talking to Michael has never been easy, but neutral ground and the deceptive moonlight can make an old enemy look like an old friend, if only for a moment.
1. Chapter 1

**Hello beautiful creatures! Just a quick note before we proceed, firstly, this is my first foray into the Bible fanfiction fandom (which I honestly didn't even know existed), so hi there everyone! Secondly, this work is a highly cherished piece that I'm actually in the process of submitting to literary magazines, part of a larger series I'm seeking publication for. I'm hoping to be able to share it with some people who will hopefully enjoy it and give me constructive criticism, that said, please use good judgment when reading and do not reproduce or "borrow" characterizations or plotlines. It's obvious, just be conscientious. Also, I obviously don't own the Bible, so there's that. Anyway, enjoy the story and God bless you all!**

Let it stand, for posterity if nothing else, that I did not leave Hell because of a _lover's quarrel_. First off, 'lover' should never be confused with underling and sexual partner, and 'quarrel' should never be confused with screaming match accompanied by bouts of violence and bursts of flame. Lilith harbors a delusion that she holds some sort of emotional sway over me, perhaps because she is my chosen Antichrist, (Yes it's a girl, idiot, did you expect me to be predictable?) perhaps because she's been my on-again, off-again paramour since the sixteenth century.

I know, I know; I shouldn't mix business with pleasure, but pleasure is my business, so can I help it if I occasionally partake? So before we proceed, let me make it clear that I did not get run out of my domain by my shrew of an Antichrist. I was faced with the choice either of losing my temper and hurdling her headlong into the lake of fire, effectively ruining my well-laid plans of world domination, or taking a short jaunt aboveground and finding some other fancy to divert my worthy attentions.

So I opted for the latter. Of my own volition, are we clear? I'm the bloody Prince of Darkness, I don't do damn a thing unless I full and well please. But I digress. On with the story, then?

The mists between worlds swirl eerily around my ankles as I step in a very unnoticeable manner from the rift in time, sweeping it shut with shadows behind me. For the public edification, I've perused many a world in my travels, despite the whole damned-for-all-eternity gig. It took me under a century to pick the locks and two decades to find the back door. That's what happens when you don't plan eternal bondage thoroughly.

I breathe deeply, tasting the sweet tang of mortal air. It's Mediterranean fauna and the salt of the sea, laced with oregano and the mechanical notes of the city. I look to the crumbling _piazza_ on my right, admiring how the silvery moonlight bounces off a nearby river to illuminate the façade. The refined iniquity hanging in the air is rich and robust, and the tinkling of lover's laughter is a beautiful contrast to the blood that's been split onto the cobblestones underfoot for so many a generation. After eons in my profession, you learn to find beauty in sin, and what better place than Italy?

I stretch my fingers experimentally, glancing in a darkened shop window to catch my reflection, and smile idly at my human veneer. This one is male and relatively low profile, mid thirties and blonde. Good looking, of course. I tousle my hair and slip into a handmade leather jacket left out so very graciously by a street vendor who appears to have taken an extended smoke break.

Italy is kind to me as always, and her sloping thoroughfares envelop me like the gloom gathering overhead. She whispers tales and bemoans her ill-treatment to me as I run my borrowed fingers across her walls. I stroll down an alleyway, passing cheerily lit cafes, run-down tenant houses, and brightly painted apartment building, all crammed together in a splendid clash of means and style. I stop to press a palm to an exceptionally old hotel. The language and essence of the city are leeched from the brick and into my body, swimming through the ether in my mind like neon schools of fish. I pick out the traces of love, hatred, calamity and confusion etched into the wall much in the way a human wine connoisseur tastes every tang of citrus and note of musk.

"The years have been unkind to you," I mutter. "And so many wars in so little a time..." I grin, scratching my name into the caked mud with a fingernail. "I have been a very busy boy…"

It occurs to me that it may be unbecoming for the Devil himself to be slumming it in Italy out of boredom, but it's not as if I have anything better to do nowadays. The humans practically do my job for me. I just can't put the fear of God (play on words, yes I just did) in people like I used to anymore. The few that still believe I exist are actually more of groupies than the making of a proper righteously indignant mob. People do what I ask before I ask it of them, and even when I do dream up a truly grand scheme, some idiot with a handgun always beats me to the punch line.

I sigh, rummaging around in my pockets for the pack of cigarettes I never leave home without. I light one up and lean back against the hotel wall, wondering where my life went wrong. The Apocalypse is fast approaching and I'm not getting any younger. This is a damn identity crisis it what it is. The cigarettes are good, however, and I try to turn that into some kind of feeble consolation. I invented them, you know. Along with reality television, rock music, sodomy, political parties, wine coolers, and push up bras. Thank me later.

Suddenly something hits my consciousness hard, snapping me out of my mire of nicotine and self-pity. It's pain, radiating off a source so focused and acute that it stabs through this human heart like needles through felt. This is no cloud of clinical depression or shock of a family death, it's something refined and true, subtle in its intensity but deep and velvet-rich like a starless night. I take a moment to enjoy this aura which sings to me a cacophony of shattered dreams in the most poignant of minor keys. I could pick that melody out of any jumble of human emotions, no mater how tangled the web or numerous the bearers. That, my darlings, is the pain of a suicide.

I follow the wailing notes through the nearest maze of alleyways and it leads me to a small bridge stretching over a dark and fast-moving river. I spy her almost immediately and struck dumb by the cinematic, almost rapturous scene before me. A girl in a tattered white dress stands on the railing of the bridge, her shoes lie lined up neatly behind her, and her dark hair, thick and glossy as any Italian's, tumbles down her back. She looks down mournfully at the river, anguish scrawled across her pretty face. It's a snapshot out of an infernal greeting card, and I could almost kiss her for her sense of symbolism. The white dress, the water, on a full moon? Pure Ophelia.

I linger at the edge of the bridge out of sight, marveling at this broken china doll. She takes a few, well balanced steps across the railing, the wind stirring the lace of her dress. It's macabre ballet, the utter surrender of which sends an illicit thrill through my soul. I send her gentle signals of dark persuasion, stretching the shadows I find in her mind to insurmountable foes. After a few moments of deliberation, I see her troubled face go smooth and I know then that I've won. She's given herself up.

But then something…Shifts. A single crystal tear sparks in her eye, taking a moment to reflect the moonlight before dripping down the join the rushing river below. Suddenly a thin sliver of panic interrupts my thoughts, and I haven't the faintest idea as to why. I want this, I want to see the finale and offer my triumphal applause when the water claims her. But something is wrong here, and it nudges at instincts long since thought dead, those of a more divine time. This in itself scares me.

I could just let her jump. Go home, make some semblance of an apology to Lilith and hopefully score angry makeup sex. But whatever's different this time around, whatever variable is setting the angel in me on high alert, needs to be dealt with immediately.

_ "Scusi."_

The girl spins around jerkily, nearly losing her balance in the process. I really wish she would. Then I would have fulfilled my duties to investigate whatever weird metaphysical vibes are coming off this kid without actually making contact. But Ophelia, as I'll call her for simplicities sake, catches herself at the last moment and looks at me imploringly with doe eyes. Great. Now I've got to _talk_ to it.

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	2. Chapter 2

"It's a little late at night for a swim," I note, my Italian flawless. "The water's terribly cold, I hear."

She grips the gargoyle perched on the edge of the bridge with white-knuckled fingers.

"Who are you?"

The fear in her voice is sweeter than the tinkling of crystal bells. I smile amicably.

"Your very best friend at the moment. Won't you come down and talk to me?"

"What do you want with me?"

I laugh heartily.

"Oh, your eyes are big as saucers, darling. Stop that, it just kills me. I'm not going to eat you." I extend a gentlemanly hand. "Let me help. Those rocks are slick with moss. I would hate to see you take a nasty tumble."

Her lip quivers and she breathes out shakily, but finally she gives in. Her cold, slim fingers encircle my own and allow her memories to flood my consciousness. The angels will tell you all sorts of things about the 'power of prayer' and 'metaphysical intimacy', but there's nothing quite like skin-on-skin. The fuse ignites between us and I am suddenly swimming in her thoughts, dreams, and sorrows. I break the connection after only a moment; any longer and she may have picked up on mine. And trust me when I say, that is an awkward conversation you never want to have.

"You couldn't possibly intend to do what I think you meant to, little one?"

She tries to protest, but her spirit is already weakened and my, let's admit it, utterly infamous charm tips her over the edge. She dissolves into sobs. I enfold her in my arms, lying my chin on her head as if I actually care, and she hugs me back as if I weren't a total stranger. I realize this sudden surrender of self seems unrealistic, but I've always had a penchant for gaining the confidence of humans. Look at Eve. I barely got a word out before she was at my feet, crying her eyes out. Basketcase. It was too easy.

"Tell me why," I urge, already knowing the answer.

"My parents," She begins awkwardly. "…Are very controlling. They don't like me to leave the house, don't like me to see anyone. But there was a man..A street musician. I loved him."

"But he left you?"

She nods, pressing a trembling hand to her stomach. "Yes. Left me. With child. If my parents find out…"

"They'll kill you," I finish, filling in the blanks with the words of the countless teenage runaways who have unfolded their woes to me. They don't think they're talking to anyone, rather to the dwindling bottle or the pills in their hand, but I am god of some things, and I hear their prayers.

"Terminate the pregnancy," I urge. "There's no harm in it. They never have to know."

She shakes her head firmly. "I don't have any money-" I'm reaching into my pocket to pull out a wad of counterfeit hundreds when she finishes. "-And I won't live while my child dies."

I make an exasperated sound more befitting of sixteen year old girl. Damn moral elitist.

"Well…Perhaps there are things in this world too terrible to bear after all. But if you don't mind me asking, isn't there something your life worth living for? Something…Out of the ordinary?"

For a moment she says nothing, as if thinking. "There is one small thing…"  
I want to crow in triumph. Good little songbird. Sing your confessional out to me so I may be done with you and go home.

"I've heard killing oneself is an unforgivable sin"

I about blast her ass with Hellfire right then and there. Instead I manage a polite,

"Excuse me?"

"When I was a child, the nuns would take the schoolchildren to mass. I adored it. I felt loved there. Even if I had to go home to my parents, I knew that there was Someone who was looking out for me, would always care for me."

"Where is He now?" I ask flatly. "He has deserted you in adulthood like the dreams and myths of youth."

"Perhaps. But it was so strange…When I was looking into the water, I suddenly remembered. I hadn't thought about church for years. I was only a child then, but suddenly I remembered what one of the nuns told us. That suicide was the most terrible sin, because it was destroying God's greatest creation. It sounds insane, but when I stood there I could swear I heard my name on the wind, as if someone was calling to me."

"You _are_ insane," I mutter. "Bonkers. Daft. Go jump in the river."

She laughs, a thin thread of hope worming into her voice and clutching my heart with icy fingers of dread. That is not where I want this conversation to go.

"Perhaps I am. Or maybe I did hear it. Wouldn't you regret it, though? Not knowing for sure if there were a God?"

"Only one way to find out," I say brightly, as if talking to a six year old. My meaning makes a slight whistling sound as it flies over her head.

She turns to me, some holy spark lighting her eyes. "A\n hour ago, a doctor confirmed I was pregnant, and I ran out of the clinic blindly without looking back. I ended up here and I was so scared; my life suddenly seemed worth ending. But now I'm not scared anymore, even though there's so much to fear. I think it's you. You're strange, but I feel as if I've always known you. Almost like you're…"

She walks right up to me, and I'm too taken aback to do much of anything. She sets her hand tenderly on the side of my face.

"_Angeli_."

The word hits me like an oversized ball bearing to the blackest pits of my soul. I throw the trembling hands away, vehement in my denial.

"No," I growl. "Not anymore. Never say it again."

I don't care that I'm not making any sense, or worse, giving myself away. She hit a raw nerve, and I could claw her pretty eyes out for it.

But Ophelia is just so damn blissfully unaware, and looks up at me with something close to adoration. "You're my savior. Sent from God."

I take a moment to merely absorb the ludicrousity of the statement, frozen there on the bridge, but by the time I gather a withering reply she's already picked up her shoes and coat.

"Do it. Jump. The world would not miss you."

Ophelia chitters, dark eyes sparkling. "You make me laugh." She goes up on tiptoe to brush her lips across my cheek, and I'm appalled. I catch her firmly by the upper arm, done playing games.  
"Do not laugh at me," I mutter. I know I'm squeezing her arm too tightly, but I'm enthralled by the sudden terror in her eyes. I _want_ her to fear me. As if taking out my frustration on the entire human race for ignoring me over the last century, I feel an overwhelming desire for this random Italian beauty to know exactly what I am.

"Do you believe in Hell?" I purr.

I never get to hear her answer. A new voice, understated yet powerful, cuts off her wavering reply.

"Let her go, Lucifer"

My heart plummets to a record low. I know that voice. Even if the damning words hadn't been in the Old Language, that spoken on earth before the Babel fiasco and now used exclusively between angels, I would still know. There's only one being left alive who still calls me by that name, that wretched title which I forsook so long ago, and I really, _really_ don't want to see him right now.

I throw little Ophelia away, pinching the bridge of my nose. "Go. Just go.

She looks at me with a sort of spooked confusion, but then gathers her things and disappears across the bridge and down the nearest alleyway, white skirts floating around her legs like the last vestiges of a benign spirit.

Certain that no mortal eyes are left on the bridge, I spread my arms bitterly and speak in my native tongue. The syllables sound rusted and awkward in my mouth.

"Do it. Arrest me again. I am utterly indifferent as to my fate."

A figure breezes past me, angry and military. I recognize the somber blue eyes and dark curls, the features so sharp they could have been carved from marble. The aura is angelic, disgustingly so, but old and rich and entangled with mine. I take in the angel who had once been my brother in arms, from the borrowed (Because when I do it, it's stealing. When angels do it, it's "borrowing") human jeans to the slight heavenly glow emanating from his face.

"Hello brother," I say brightly. "How's Daddy?"

Michael slaps down my arms, unamused by my sardonic tongue as always. "I should have you court-martialed, Lucifer. Or just kill you and save the rest of Heaven a lot of time and resources."

I roll my eyes, lighting another cigarette. After eons of chances, Michael has never turned me in. Given me a good hiding? Absolutely. Tipped his archangels off to my location? Many times. But pulled a complete endgame and made me stand trial before the Throne? Not once.

I smoke in silence, content to watch him for the time being. He's gotten older, I notice; no matter how young the body an angel inhabits, the eyes always give it away. I admit to myself that I've gotten older too, and that it's been too long by anyone's standards since we've seen each other. He isn't flanked by a battalion of cherubim, so I assume he's off-duty. As it happens, so am I, so neither of us feel obligated to exchange the usual death threats or even mild good versus evil banter. Michael and I have had a long-standing agreement that if we were ever to meet like this, a temporary ceasefire would be called. If it were any angel other than Michael, or if I we stumbled across each other in the presence of any of my demons, it would be an entirely different story. But he's my exception. And no matter how he denies it, I know I'm his.

Still, that hardly means there's any love lost between us, and I jump at the chance to rub him the wrong way.


	3. Chapter 3

"Really?" I murmur slyly. "I only wonder how many resources you've wasted _pretending _to search for me? Consorting with the Enemy? Now that's a crime."

Michael is on me in an instant, grabbing the collar of my jacket and slamming me bodily into the nearest support pillar of the bridge.

"I'm in no mood for your games tonight," He growls. "Don't play the martyr here. You haven't the right."

"Don't I?" I snarl, pleasantly surprised at how quick I provoked him, but less happy with the fact that's he's wrinkling my clothes. "I could cite courses, if that helps."

"Don't start that again. I was only doing my job."

I shove him away hard, good and incensed now. We're falling into the same classic argument again, but I feel the need to defend my point as always.

"You were trusted, Michael. You were loved! You betrayed me, then wiped my name from your memory as if I never existed."

"You were speaking madness, Lucifer, blasphemy! You wanted to overthrow The Throne for Saint Peter's Sake, and you asked me to _help_! I had no choice but to turn you in! You made your choice long ago, so don't act as if I caused you to become _this_."

He gestures to me in disgust, and I feel like choking the life out of him right there on the bridge.

"Don't patronize me! Don't look at me like some pitiful creature lorded over by you, leader of the archangels. We are no different! I chose to dissent, to become something more than what I was, but you were somehow content to stay a simpering errand boy for The One!"

I had hoped for the slightest flicker of fear, but he's merely annoyed by my ranting and the look he gives me plainly accuses me of being the insane one. His eyes, so hard and blue they almost look like cut obsidian in the right light, challenge me to say another word. I suddenly feel as though all my indignations and pleadings are for naught, and for a moment I'm tempted to apologize and let things be the way they once were.

But forgiveness is not in my nature.

I take a step back from him, muttering something incoherent down at my shoes. Michael sighs heavily, sounding like a parent disappointed in their rebellious child, but I can tell he's done arguing.

"How have you been?" He asks gently, as if afraid of the reply. I laugh sharply. Typical. We're at each other's throats one minute and exchanging pleasantries the next.

"All goes well for me. Badly for you, of course." I gesture to the tainted world around me, rummaging around in my pocket for the tin I keep my uppers and downers in. "I hardly feel needed anymore."

I coax a small smile from him, a genuine one that reminds me of the days when I would spend hours at a time causing trouble just so I could see him laugh. I banish these memories and voice my next question with a more professional air.

"How goes the manhunt?"

"You mean the one for you?" He asks sarcastically. "We're following a couple of strong leads."  
"He's going to realize that you've let me go, you do realize that? That'll be a dark day in Heaven..."

"I stayed, Luce. I remained loyal to The Father in light of your betrayal, and I have never once left His side. I'm entitled to my few indulgences. He knows, though, in case you were wondering. It sort of comes with being omniscient."

"And you can't help but make sure I'm alright every once in a while," I finish smugly, tilting my head in a feline way. "I never knew you cared, darling."

"And you don't do the same?"

"Don't be preposterous," I lie, plucking a few pills from the case haphazardly and swilling them around in my hand. "I'm too busy for that sort of nostalgic nonsense."

"But are you really alright? I've heard…things."

"I'm fine, Michael, Stop pretending to care. Lying only becomes one of us." I go to take my suicide of random drugs and Michael catches my wrist firmly, pulling my hand away from my mouth.

"Don't."

I glare at him. "You're not my mother."

"I'm sick and tired of watching you self-desturct. Just because you can handle something doesn't mean you should make it a habit."

His voice is low and almost gentle, reminding me of a few quietly intense conversations we had in heaven when it became apparent that we weren't going to be on the same side of the war much longer.

"When have you cared?"

"You're a bi-polar, promiscuous, drug-addicted narcissist with access to nearly unlimited power. It's a recipe for disaster."

"Well, we all have our little problems…"

"Could you not mouth off for once in your life, Lucifer? I'm serious."

I ignore his persistence and laugh in his face, ripping my hands away and popping the pills into my mouth. They dissolve on my tongue immediately, and the kick is heavenly. I grin triumphantly.

His eyes darken, but I can't tell if it's in sadness or anger, and he throws my hand away in disgust. "You're no better than a human and twice as blind."

I lean against the railing of the bridge, dropping my chin to my chest and gazing down into the water. The moonlight scorches against my skin like the halo of God Himself, and the happy buzz building in my brain is almost comparable to the euphoria of worshipping The Throne. "I suppose."

Michael nods in the direction Ophelia took off in. "You come after her?"

"After a fashion. I decided to take an evening stroll and stumbled across Miss Gloomy Sunday. I was well within my jurisdiction to do so; she was a jumper, you know those souls are mine."

"After death, Luce. _After death_. You are forbidden to intercede beforehand."

"She had already made her decision," I whine, trying to keep my syllables clean. I'm an angel; even in a human body I'm not going to be able to completely plaster myself no matter what I take. That's disheartening, let me tell you. Nothing's worse than wanting to make yourself completely numb and only being able to come near the brink of oblivion and still _feel_. But whatever it is Lilith re-filled my tin with is high quality, and the colors of the world are signing to me and stealing my capability for flawless diction.

"What were you thinking giving yourself away to her like that?" Michael continues. "I take one night off, one night away from the paperwork and the strategy talks, and I stumble across you, looming over some seventeen year old waif like a specter! I knew you were insane, Lucifer, but that goes beyond eccentric into plain idiocy. Why?"

I wait for him to wind himself down. Michael always was the highly-strung one.

"Dunno. A first I was content to watch, I just wanted a little light entertainment to lift my spirits. But then something went wrong. Something reached inside me and twisted…I had to find out why she tormented me so."

Michael looks almost amused. "So you felt the need to question her regarding her experiences with the divine?"

"It seemed worthy of the desperate measure," I shrug, sinking down to sit with my back pressed against the railing wall, mussing my hair with a wandering hand. "If she was some sort of angelic channel, I wanted to make sure she told me what she knew."

Michael scowls. "There are ground rules for this game, Luce. You can try and tempt away human hearts under the condition that you never make yourself blatantly apparent to them."

"Well she didn't know anything at all." I admit, more troubled by this then I let on. "She just stared at me with those damned eyes…You must know. Tell me, what was so different about her?"

He looks at me with something close to concern. Crouching down, he gently, almost as if he's afraid of breaking me, _me_, grips my shoulders. "Absolutely nothing, Luce. She's just a troubled youth, cherished by The Father but unimportant by your standards. Just a girl in trouble."

I look at him for a moment, then burst out laughing. "Oh, I see! You think I actually cared whether she lived or died!"

"It is your nature."

I feel my eyes go hard, wriggling out of his grasp. "Don't be stupid."

"Admit it, brother. She stirred your heart; her immanent death disturbed you because some deep, hidden part of you did not want her to die." He sits down next to me, folding his arms over his knees, ready to keep vigil over his wrecked brother-in-arms. "I suspect you just wanted to know what it felt like to do good again, after all these years."

"Oh, do stop," I laugh, and the drugs make it that much more funny. "You know me better."

"Exactly. This is not what you were meant for."

He's starting to annoy me on a very acute level. "Wasn't it? This is my destiny, Michael. I embrace every sin-stained aspect of it. I would much rather spend an eternity doing as I please than following orders. Besides, I've turned this temptation business into a roaring enterprise." I rest my head against his shoulder, sighing heavily as the chemicals burn in my brain and send Technicolor spots dancing through my eyes. "_Tis' better to reign in Hell than serve in Heaven_."

"Don't quote Milton at me. Someday you're going to have to face the centuries of lies you've been running from, and then you'll have absolutely no idea what to do with yourself."

Oh, how I hate his perception. I want to deny everything, but I'm not up to it and instead I satisfy my guilty heart by kissing his cheek, uttering not a word. It occurs to me that I wouldn't be this affectionate sober; Lilith always told me I was needy under the influence, but I really don't mind, because suddenly, I miss Michael so _goddamn much_. I want to know what it feels like again, to be close to someone in a completely intimate way without ulterior motives or sexual manipulation. But no matter how hard I try, there's still an uncomfortable coldness here, the wrongness of the fallen needing the comfort of the exalted.

Michael just shakes his head, half-accustomed to my fleeting and self-contradicting displays of affection by now. His hand drifts out to sweep across my head once, then he has retracted it, and his voice takes on a more professional tone.

"You know, there are mortals who believe that you'll be welcomed back into Heaven after the Final Battle is over. Apparently they hypothesize that by tempting the children of God, you were actually fulfilling His will in giving them a choice in the matter of belief." He paused, then persists with his flights of fancy. "You could come home, you know. Gabe misses you something fierce."

I laugh softly. "Gabriel hates me. You would think it was he I was trying to overthrow by the look on his face when he found out."

"Uriel-"

"Is undoubtedly too preoccupied with his bookkeeping to even notice that I'm gone. The annals of Heaven don't write themselves." I furrow my brow and convict myself in my next words, pulling away from him and standing without his help. The moment was nice, but it's over now. "I'm not coming home, Michael. Never again. I'll die free."

He's disappointed as always. "I should go. The next patrol round will be through here soon and I don't want them to get spooked and try to take you by force. They don't know about our…arrangement."

I savor the sensation of the last few words of the Old language I'll speak tonight, and they tickle and pop on my tongue like carbonated candy.

"Don't expect this warm of a welcome again. I have no doubt that the next time we meet it will be over a blade and with murderous intent, ceasefire or no ceasefire."

He smiles.

"I have no doubt. Goodbye, Lucifer."

I don't look back as I stroll off and whistle a few bars of _Danny Boy_, opening a rift with the snap of my fingers. The shadows stretch and grow to a massive maw of ether and heady mists, already ushering me in. I can hear Lilith's plaintive voice from inside, calling my name and ready to kiss and make up. With one last knowing smile, I disappear into my own cozy domain of brimstone and damnation, satisfied for the moment. This night has yielded more questions than answers, but I'm strangely at peace, and more importantly, invigorated. I'm ready to face a new challenge and eager for it, regardless of whether I have to hunt it down myself or not. For now, all is well.

And yes, that means you should stock up on bottled water and prepare for the Apocalypse. Now get out of here; I'm tired of looking at you. I have an Antichrist to console.


End file.
